


Porthos's Duchess

by BazinMousqueton



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, I Kissed a Girl (And I Liked It), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spoilers for The Three Musketeers (Book), Spoilers through to 1x04, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:00:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Duchess of Savoy finds she needs a bit of rough and Porthos is happy to oblige.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porthos's Duchess

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is unexpected. I wasn't planning to write this but couldn't resist. You can blame Alexandre Dumas, Pere. 
> 
> In _The Three Musketeers_ Porthos's duchess turns out [spoiler alert!] to be nothing of the sort. I've always felt Porthos deserved better. Christine Marie, Duchess of Savoy -- secret agent extraordinaire and absolutely not your average duchess -- is clearly the aristocrat Porthos merits. 
> 
> Set during 1x04 (The Good Soldier).
> 
> I'll return to your regularly scheduled programming of Portamis smut next week.

A horse's hooves echo through the garrison courtyard. Porthos stands and flicks back his blue half-cloak. The rider is a woman, cloaked and hooded, riding astride despite her long dress. She comes to a carefully controlled halt, dismounts lightly, and pushes back her hood with ungloved hands.

_The Duchess of Savoy._

She's wearing golden yellow. Porthos has always liked yellow. Not many people can wear it, but he already suspects this is a woman who can do anything she pleases. Jewels drip from her ears and her neck and nestle in her black hair. Porthos bows, aware of Athos doing the same next to him. Athos's bow is, as ever, more elegant; it marks him as the leader. It's Athos the Duchess addresses. Perhaps it will always be Athos she addresses. But it's Porthos who comes up with the plan that will save her. She looks at him long and hard then, her eyes dark and assessing. He stares back. A hint of a flush colours her cheeks before she turns away to let Athos help her onto her horse.

She rides ahead, fast and dangerous. 

At the prison it's left to Porthos to wield the brute force his plan needs. He overpowers the guard, drags him to Cluzet's cell and pushes him aside. 

"I want nothing to do with it!" the guard protests.

The Duchess fells him with one blow. 

"Not your average duchess, then," Porthos says, eyes locked on hers, aware of a rush of blood to his cock. She doesn't reply. 

They hide, just in time; Porthos grappling with Cluzet, gagging him with strong fingers; Athos and the Duchess of Savoy standing apart. The Duchess's bearing is haughty, her posture upright. She seems unconcerned when her husband enters the cell next to their hiding place. She shows no fear of getting caught.

Porthos watches her, in awe. She watches him, lips slightly parted.

They wait until the Duke and the Cardinal's footsteps have faded before throwing Cluzet back in his cell. The man has insulting words for the Duchess. Porthos slaps him across the face, backhanded, sending him sprawling. As Porthos locks the cell door the Duchess turns away and speaks quietly to Athos. Athos raises his chin, surprised. The Duchess speaks again. Porthos doesn't hear the words. 

"Your Grace," Athos says, agreeing to something. He gathers d'Artagnan and Serge by eye and sends them away with a nod, d'Artagnan darting a confused look over his shoulder at Porthos. Athos leans in to Porthos and speaks quietly. "Her Grace wishes to question Cluzet. She requests your presence, and yours alone."

Porthos's stomach clenches. Of course. Those appraising glances weren't for the musketeer or the man; they were for the beast. He's been judged, not for the first time, as holding more monster than his comrades. He can't keep his thoughts off his face. Athos, as always, sees too much. He squeezes Porthos's shoulder before leaving. 

Porthos turns back to the cell, his chest tight. Best to get this over with. He hopes intimidation will be enough. He doesn't have the stomach to torture an old man, even one known to be a Spanish spy.

The Duchess reaches out and takes Porthos's hand. A jolt runs up his arm at the touch of her bare fingers on his. The Duchess draws him back to their earlier hiding place and tiptoes to whisper in his ear. 

"Kiss me."

Porthos freezes. 

_She's the King's sister._

"Would that be treason?" 

She laughs. "You wouldn't hang for it," she says. "My husband would tear you apart first."

"That's comforting."

She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls his head down. She smells of apricot blossom. Her lips are soft, although she kisses commandingly. There's no doubt who's in charge. Porthos lets her control the kiss. He opens his mouth so she can slide her tongue past his teeth and moans softly as their tongues touch. He feels her smile into him. He lets her enjoy the moment, waits until she's fully relaxed--

\--and grabs her waist double-handed. His hands grip, lift and push her into the wall. He deepens the kiss. She curls her fingers into his hair and wraps her legs around his hips. He gasps as her thighs clasp him. She's strong. He's stronger. His heart pounds. He presses his erection into her, through far too many layers of clothes, and she arches, tipping her head back against the wall and revealing her throat. He kisses along her jawline and down her neck, revelling in the feel of his lips against silky, stubble-free skin. It's a while since he's been with a woman.

He pulls back, remembering she isn't just any woman.

"Are you sure you want this?" he asks. "Your Grace."

She looks straight into his eyes. "Certain," she says. Her hands work down his doublet, unbuttoning and pushing the leather back. She unlaces his shirt. "You?"

"Yeah," Porthos says. He releases her waist, knowing her legs are curled tightly enough around him to hold her in place, and wriggles out of his doublet. She pulls the shirt over his head and bends to run her tongue across his chest, circling each nipple in turn. He growls. He finds the hem of her skirts and pushes them up, slowly, to reveal her legs. His calloused hands catch on her fine white silk stockings; he'd feel guilty about destroying them if the hitch in the Duchess's breath hadn't confirmed how much his rough edges turn her on. 

The Duchess runs the palms of her hands over his back. She slows as she reaches his scars and touches gentle fingertips along them: the recent one at his right shoulder blade; the older one nearer his waist on the other side. She traces a diagonal line between the two.

"My husband has a scar right across his back," she says, leaning into him, her breath tickling his ear.

"I know," Porthos says. She looks a question at him. He hesitates for a moment, wondering whether she can take this.

She can. He's confident she can.

"My lover put it there," he says, picturing Aramis; the beautiful way he wields a sword, all grace and predatory instinct.

The Duchess tenses as the meaning of his words sinks in. A shiver runs through her and she laughs, breathless. Her ribbon garters, tied just below her knees, are the same gold as her dress. Above them her thighs are as white as the stockings. Porthos runs his thumbs up both inner thighs, pushing her shift away, laughing as she moans. She's bare and wet underneath the shift. He strokes her with a single finger.

Her hands tighten on his shoulders, perfectly manicured nails digging in when he reaches her clit. He circles. She pants. He captures her lips in a bruising kiss and pushes two fingers up into her. She bucks and cries out. He rubs her clit with his thumb and pulses the fingers inside her. She's warm and soft as satin. 

She writhes against him, pressing into his hand. She unbuttons his breeches, her arms trembling, and fumbles with the laces of his linens. He delights in ruining her concentration, in seeing how much she loves being held up by him, being touched by him. Her back presses into the prison's stone wall. Her neck is red where his beard has scratched. He kisses it, feeling her pulse race under the skin.

She tightens her vaginal muscles to squeeze his fingers, finally gets his linens open and teases her hands along his cock. He sucks in a breath at her touch. He's fully hard. He fears he won't last long.

He moves his hands to support the Duchess's thighs, ignoring her brief sigh of disappointment as he pulls his fingers out of her. He lifts her up and steps in close. The tip of his cock presses against her. He only needs to lower her to sheath himself fully.

He breathes in, fighting for control, and forces himself to stop. The Duchess whimpers. She squirms in his hands. He strains to hold her up. His arms burn.

"I want to take you," Porthos says. "Is that what you want?" 

She reaches down and cups his balls in her smooth hand. He grits his teeth.

"Yes," she says.

He moves. Slides into her. Bends his knees and thrusts. Again. She scrabbles one-handed against the wall, trying to get purchase so she can push onto him. Her other hand grips his arm. He picks up his speed. Each stroke sends a rush of warmth through him. He's close, so close. A trickle of sweat runs down his chest. She licks it, curving her body to rub her clit against him. He adjusts their angle, knows he's got it right when she cries out. She moans louder with each ragged breath. Her fingers tighten on his biceps, the nails sharp. 

Porthos can't hold it any longer. He gasps, thrusts, comes inside her, his rhythm stuttering. The Duchess presses down against him, her cries rising, then holds herself still, tremors running through her as she comes. Porthos gathers her in his arms and holds her tight against him. He's light-headed. His body tingles. His throat is raw. He presses a kiss onto the top of her head. She unlocks her thighs, slips down onto her feet, and straightens her skirts. She leans against Porthos, hand on his chest, until she regains her balance.

"You were perfect," she says.

# # #

He sees her once more. The peace treaty between France and Savoy has been signed, and the Musketeers form an honour guard as the Duke and Duchess take their leave. The Duchess wears coral and grey. Tear-drop pearls hang pendant from the points of her flared rebato collar. Her cap is jewelled and feathered. Everything about her is flawless, and untouchable. She stops in front of Porthos, although it's Athos she turns to as she speaks.

"One thing you should know. I love my husband. Very much."

She walks away with her head held high; a woman with no regrets.


End file.
